


Grieve For The Living

by Reis_Asher



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Crying, Heartbreak, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Palace, Missing Scene, Post-Break Up, Post-Episode: s03e07 Digestivo, Regret, Season/Series 03, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25628665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reis_Asher/pseuds/Reis_Asher
Summary: After their breakup and Hannibal's subsequent surrender, Will ruminates on his actions and questions if he can truly hope to live a life free of Hannibal.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	Grieve For The Living

Will turned his back on Hannibal knelt in the snow, Hannibal's words digging into his flesh like a thousand knives. He didn't want to see Jack take Hannibal away. He'd only wanted him to run. To get as far away from Will as possible before Will compromised them both. Instead, Hannibal had knelt down in the snow and surrendered so that Will would always know where he was.

It felt like severing a limb to break up with Hannibal, only to have it reattached poorly when Hannibal had given himself up. Logically, Will knew cutting him loose was an act of self-preservation, but it felt like the opposite. Like he was killing a part of himself to save the rest, slicing away necrotized flesh to stop the spread of infection through his body. He didn't want to lose any part of himself, even and especially the parts birthed by Hannibal through all the acts of madness he'd subjected Will to. 

He hadn't anticipated Hannibal would give up his freedom to keep Will on the hook, and the knowledge twisted inside him like the cold steel of Hannibal's knife at Will's betrayal. He slammed his screen door, the flashing lights of the cop cars outside shining on the walls. He yanked the curtains shut, forcing himself to look down at the floor so he wouldn't catch the glimpse of Hannibal he so desperately wanted, even now. His scar prickled with remembered pain, and he had to check he wasn't bleeding through his shirt.

It was a relief when the cars finally pulled away—or something like relief, but not quite. He didn't feel particularly unburdened by cutting Hannibal loose. They'd been separated before, and Hannibal had always reeled him back in, the allure of the bait too much for Will to avoid taking a bite.

He forced himself to think of everything Hannibal had taken from him. Abigail. Beverly. Georgia. His sleep, his sanity, his freedom. The simple life he'd lived before Hannibal Lecter had died an inelegant death, tainted by Hannibal's penchant for murder. Will clung to all those reasons like they might cut the cord of their joining, but they only served to make him miss Hannibal in some sick, twisted sense. He could barely remember the life he'd led before he'd walked amongst death and violence, reading Hannibal's self-indulgent murder poetry and finding himself inside it.

He sat down in the chair Hannibal had occupied just a few moments before and took off his glasses. Hannibal's residual body heat clung to Will like arms around him, and he was comforted by it. He tried to tell himself this was just another nightmare that would be over in the morning.

He wanted to wake in Florence, Hannibal naked in bed beside him, looking at him with that gaze he reserved only for Will. The one that made him feel powerful and desirable. Abigail would be out on an errand, and they could take their time making love as slivers of sunlight kissed their skin through wooden shutters. He imagined wedding rings catching the light, his lips twisting into a sad smile as he imagined Hannibal whispering "Will Lecter-Graham" like a prayer.

Hannibal's scent in his home felt like a kiss, and yearning shot through Will like a dull ache. His body and soul had been through so much, and he knew this wasn't rational. He needed to rest. Their blood-soaked story had to come to a close, and yet it couldn't end with Hannibal by his side. They could only ever destroy each other with their love. He'd been right when he said they were a zero-sum game. Will needed to escape. Build a life with someone else while Hannibal was behind bars where he belonged. Someone sane. Someone who wasn't a serial killer and cannibal. A person who might bring out the best of Will instead of the worst.

Will buried his face in his hands. His entire body hurt—cuts, bruises, and scars too numerous to count. Hannibal had done more than left his mark. Will would never heal, physically or mentally. Even if Hannibal died, his ghost would haunt Will, he was sure of it. He wanted it to, however jealous and selfish that was, and he knew from that thought alone that any attempt he made to move on was doomed to failure.

Perhaps it would have been better to have graced Hannibal's dinner table in Florence. Will had no particular desire to die, and yet there was an inevitability and a sense of peace to the thought of consummating his union with Hannibal by being eaten. He'd been terrified in the moment, and yet it would have been over. They would have been one. A victory would have been wrung from his remains, even if it was a hollow one. Would Hannibal have regretted killing him? Mourned his death with a dozen murders, each arranged as a tribute? Would Will have haunted Hannibal, forever cursed and blessed to walk by his side as Hannibal carved his way through human society with a butcher's knife?

He thought back to Hannibal kneeling in the snow. How desperate his expression was as he submitted to arrest. Will had left scars on him, too. The Dr. Lecter who'd given him encephalitis wasn't the same man who'd dropped to his knees in surrender outside. Hannibal was heartbroken, and Will kept shattering his heart, over and over. Breaking it into tiny pieces and crushing them like glass beneath his heel. Perhaps Hannibal's attempt to eat Will had been born from that same desperation to end it, one way or another. From a desire to be free of Will as much as Will wished to be free of him.

A sob escaped Will's lips, tears trickling down his face. There was no winning, but they'd both lost tonight. Now was the time to mourn and move on, in the hopes that Will at least could wring something out of his wretched existence. He tried not to think of Hannibal confined to a cage for the rest of his life. Neither of them had wanted that, but that was the way things had turned out.

He wiped his tears away and stood up, stripping down and leaving his clothes on the floor. He climbed into bed and closed his eyes, knowing he wasn't likely to find much sleep tonight. His exhausted body succumbed to sleep, and he dreamt of Florence, of the life he'd imagined in a universe where the teacup was still whole.

Will woke with the memory of Hannibal's kiss on his lips, his cock stiff beneath the covers. He closed his eyes and continued to imagine the dream, playing it out in his mind palace. Hannibal was making love to him, and Will took himself in hand, jerking off to his active imagination. 

Hannibal was such a careful lover, planting kisses on Will's neck like he was made of glass, thrusting inside him slowly, like he was afraid to hurt Will. Will scoffed as he sped up his motions, thinking of how like Hannibal that was—to spare him tender concern one moment, only to try and kill him the next. 

At any moment Hannibal could tear Will's throat out with his teeth, and that only made Will more desperate. He whined as he thrust up into his own hand, bucking his hips. He was close, the thought of Hannibal's bloodlust driving him to new heights. He wrapped his free hand around his own throat, cutting off his oxygen supply. Hannibal would know exactly how much pressure to apply as he squeezed the life out of him, and exactly when to stop to spare Will's body. Or not.

With a startled cry he came, gasping for breath as he shot his load all over himself and the bedsheets. Reality intruded on his fantasy, his head pounding as he came down from his orgasm. The truth of what had just happened dawned on him, the knowledge that Hannibal was now out of reach leaving him with a sense of loneliness so much greater than anything he'd ever felt. He clutched the pillows, his body trembling, sobs racking him as he mourned for the teacup once again. He wanted to find all the pieces and glue it back together. Even if it leaked, it was still better than depositing all the shards in the trash.

He couldn't reach back through time no more than he could bring the dead back to life. What was done was done, and all he could do was move forward from it.

But for tonight and the foreseeable future at least, he would allow himself a little self-indulgent grief for the Hannibal-shaped teacup he'd thrown to the floor. Will had wanted to see Hannibal's heart break the way Hannibal had broken his, over and over. There was a grim satisfaction in the deed, even as he regretted it.

It was just another way in which he and Hannibal were the same, and his understanding of that fact only made him realize that he was swimming against a current he could never hope to overcome. Eventually he would grow tired and drown, pulled beneath the water never to surface again.

Will knew he would fight it regardless. It was all he could do. Yet he longed for the day when he gave up the struggle, finally exhausted enough to surrender to Hannibal's kiss of death. To drown the last vestiges of good inside himself like unwanted kittens and accept his becoming as a beast bathed in blood.


End file.
